Watch Me Burn
by FerryBerry
Summary: ON HIATUS. When a confrontation between Santana and Rachel goes too far, the effects are intense and far-reaching for everyone.
1. Watch Me Burn

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. All belongs to _Glee_ writers and creators.

**WARNING:** Includes mild violence, heavy angst, and crazy!Santana.

**A/N:** First off, I would like to say that I love Santana. This fic in no way represents how I like to paint her character, but the idea would not leave. This follows right after 'Special Education,' in which it was emphasized that Rachel was fixated on the 'who' of Finn's virginity debacle. Santana also seems to be on a 'Hate Rachel' parade, and it occurred to me that perhaps something off-screen could have happened. This is an exploration of that. The title is obviously taken from Eminem and Rihanna's 'Love the Way You Lie.'

**Watch Me Burn**

Rachel couldn't believe how exhausted she was. Winning (oh, all right, tying) at Sectionals should've been enough to boost her energy back up to where it normally was. But she didn't feel refreshed, or rejuvenated, or any of the things she usually felt after performing and bringing a crowd to its feet. She might've made the argument that it was because it wasn't _her_ who had led New Directions to victory again, but her pride in her teammates's performances countered that thought. Quinn and Sam and everyone, really—especially Mike and Brittany—they'd all been nearly perfect. The win (tie), at the time, felt spectacular.

But now, alone in the auditorium, with no one to put on a happy face for, no reason to sing or dance, Rachel couldn't deny the exhaustion that had been creeping up on her from the moment Santana had…. She wiped the thought away almost as quickly as it came. She didn't want to think about that ever again, though the Latina certainly wasn't making it an easy task to forget it.

The singer heaved a sigh that finally allowed her sore shoulders to release their tension and rest, and she felt like sobbing. But that would've taken too much energy, so instead she leaned her frame heavily against the piano and rubbed a cold hand down her cheek, closing her eyes to her own frosty touch. It was the only kind touch she would be feeling for some time now, she was sure, so she was going to enjoy it. At least it cooled her burning, tight cheeks somewhat.

It was too much. All of it. Rachel just wanted it to stop. Wanted the world to stop spinning and, at least for a time, let her life be calm, tranquil. She'd always been a believer in making one's dreams come true (how would they be worth it if one didn't work for them?), so she quickly decided that she would bring a brief halt to her chaotic life with a long hot bath upon her arrival home. Her dads would be out, as per usual, and so she could even use the master bathroom with the largest tub. She would finally put the lavender-scented candles her papa had given her last year for Hanukkah to use. The smallest of smiles graced her lips at the thought of the heaven that awaited her, and she made to close her binder of sheet music in her eagerness to escape the suffocating hell that was McKinley High School.

"Hey there, Man Hands."

A chill went straight up Rachel's spine, though she fought to maintain a rigid posture. Santana's cold voice never failed to send the hairs on the back of the brunette's neck standing at attention, and it was all the worse since that night. She'd hoped it would have the opposite effect, as the Latina was already a bloodhound for weakness, and that night had only heightened her focus on Rachel, along with her thirst for blood. Alas, luck was not on her side. As it hadn't been since the beginning of this year.

Rachel spared Santana a glance, unable to meet those dead eyes for too long. The Latina seemed to notice, and it made her smirk grow. The singer focused her gaze on the sheet music under her shaking fingers, the black notes blurring and bleeding into the field of white they lay on so she no longer had a clue of what she was pretending to look over. Her stomach twisted violently as the cheerleader's proximity became an issue, and Rachel found herself cursing that night, not for the first time. While Santana's voice had always unnerved her, before that night, the brunette had never found the Latina's company to be so jarring.

"Santana," she said evenly, but her voice wavered and she _knew_ the cheerleader wouldn't miss it.

"No hello? Not even a 'how are you'?" she mocked, almost sweetly. It was chilling. "Where are your manners, Stubbles?"

Rachel could literally feel the Latina passing behind her, and when the page clenched in her ghostly white fingers began to shake, she released it hastily and whirled on the cheerleader, determined not to play the frightened damsel in this sick game of the other girl's.

"Santana, please," she begged, staring into the slightly wider eyes of the taller girl with as much bravery as she could muster. "You have gotten what you wanted. Finn broke up with me, all right? I'm alone and miserable, and you have made your point, however unnecessary it was. I never intended on telling anyone, and I never will. I am just as ashamed of what happened as you are."

That was the wrong thing to say. She knew it as soon as it escaped her lips, but there was no taking it back now. The word 'ashamed' seemed to ring out through the empty auditorium, taunting the both of them and feeding the fire raging in the Latina's eyes. Rachel stepped backward unconsciously, pressing her back into the cool wood of the piano and trying not to show just how completely _terrified_ she was right now.

Santana was vicious, but she would never physically harm her. She wasn't that crazy. Right?

She was almost hyperventilating when the Latina chose to strike, taking a threatening step closer as a sneer twisted her normally beautiful features.

"Oh, _you're_ ashamed, Treasure Trail?" she spat, eyeing the diva with disdain. "As though my little mistake wasn't the highlight of your miserable existence?"

She was about to go on, but Rachel had heard the word she needed and she latched onto it like a life raft.

"Exactly!" she yelped, and Santana practically growled at being interrupted. "It was a mistake for the both of us. I disgust you an-and I'm not gay."

She flinched at the last word, and then the Latina was smirking at her and her stomach twisted violently. Every fiber of her body was _screaming_ for her to run from the cheerleader and her wickedness, but she was paralyzed. She felt stuck to the piano behind her, like it had trapped her as soon as she touched it.

"Is that what you tell Not-So-Finnocent when you're calling her name?" she purred, again drifting closer.

Rachel had the edge of the piano in a death grip and every ounce of blood in her face drained away. Santana was delighting in it. She could see her eyes dancing with mirth at the singer's horror. She whipped away, refusing to look into those eyes any longer as she faced her binder of sheet music. Her hands were shaking again.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said firmly, stiffly. Her voice sounded appropriately clipped and icy, and she was proud of herself.

Santana wasn't impressed in the least. She simply leaned an elbow against the piano next to her, drawing lazy designs over the black top with the tips of her fingers.

"Course, their names are pretty close and, hey, Frankenteen _would_ be dumb enough to let it slide," she said casually, cracking a grin at her fellow brunette when she leveled a frown her way.

"Don't talk about him that way," she warned, but again the Latina ignored her.

"I mean, even you got them mixed up. Tell me, hobbit, how does it feel knowing you completely fucked up any chance you ever had with her when you went after the wrong person?" She was practically giddy.

_I never had a chance with her before either._ It was on the tip of her tongue, but she managed to control the impulse. She bit her lip viciously, not caring that she was digging into it so hard it was turning white. She had to keep herself from giving Santana more fuel to add to the bonfire she already had.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Santana," she said easily, lifting her chin a little in defiance to her words. "You are correct that I appear to have ruined any chance I once had with Finn, but in my defense, we wouldn't be in this position if not for you."

She smirked. "You mean you and Puckerman ruined your chances. I didn't do anything, Berry. At least, that Finnessa knows about."

Rachel closed her eyes, gathering herself, and sighed. "I made a mistake—"

"Several."

"—and that's all it was. I'm _not_ gay."

"Oh, so that's what it means when a girl puts her tongue in my mouth?" Santana retorted, mock-thoughtfully. "Gee, I—"

A flash of the memory of the Latina's tongue massaging hers was all it took for Rachel to be overtaken by a wave of embarrassment, followed by fury, and she slammed the binder shut, turning on her fellow brunette once more.

"Okay, if you want to play it _that_ way, _you_ are the one who sucked on my lip until I—"

"I forget. Was that before or after you moaned Q—"

"You're just angry because I didn't have sex with you!" Rachel blurted, the blood rushing back to her face as soon as she said it and clapping a hand firmly over her mouth.

That was quite possibly the most idiotic thing she'd said yet, but she hadn't been able to help herself. She'd panicked. If Santana said it, actually _said_ it _out loud_, it would be real. She couldn't pretend anymore that a different consonant had fallen from her lips first. She couldn't pretend these feelings were fake, or just normal teenage hormones. She would be a cliché, a statistic, and she would be _fucked_ for the rest of her romantic life in high school.

The Latina laughed. She actually threw her head back and laughed, and if it weren't for that moment of hesitation in which she looked a little taken aback, Rachel would've believed her words had had no effect on her whatsoever.

"Seriously, Yentl? You think I'm _that_ desperate?" She rolled her eyes. "Please. I'm Santana fucking Lopez. I can get anyone I want, any time I want."

"Except for me," the singer said hastily, determined to take this weak spot she'd found and twist it until it burned and she was in control of the conversation again. "And I'll bet that kills you, doesn't it?"

Santana scoffed, covering her grimace.

"That you didn't exactly rock my world?" she continued, smirking in triumph at the wordless Latina. "Well, I'm sorry if not all of us are as easy as Brittany is."

Rachel regretted the words. As soon as she said them, she wanted to turn back time and erase them, because that's not how she felt about Brittany at all. The girl may have been a little odd and challenged, perhaps, but she was sweet and friendly and the singer genuinely liked her. She didn't think she was 'easy,' and she was sorry she even thought those vicious words.

When her left cheek met Santana's right hand, Rachel couldn't have been more sorry if she tried.

She couldn't help the yelp of simultaneous surprise and pain that forced itself through her throat and out her lips, her cheek already stinging as though the Latina had used her fist instead of her open palm. It burned and it hurt to move her face, and Rachel was cupping the wounded area from her doubled over position when she felt her shoulders snatched in a vice grip.

She felt the piano collide with her back and whimpered helplessly when she was forced back into it a second time, though less forcefully then. Her focus was abruptly stolen from her throbbing injuries when Santana proceeded to dig her fingernails into each of her cheeks, keeping her attention directly on her.

Her cold, dead eyes crackled with rage and Rachel didn't know if it was because of the feeling of complete and utter _terror_ that took her over at the sight or because of the pain in her back and face, but tears were burning behind her own eyes and she was trembling all over. The Latina didn't care, only shrinking the distance between them and breathing down on the singer with the quick, hot pants of fury, and Rachel was certain she would kill her.

"If you _ever_ talk about Brittany that way again," Santana growled, and the quietness of it just sent a shiver down her spine, "I will end your pathetic existence. You got that?"

Rachel couldn't move her jaw because of the Latina's grip, and it was too painful to change expressions. All she could do was whimper through her lips and nod just enough to let the frightening girl know it wasn't another tremble. It seemed to calm Santana. Not by much, but just enough that her fingernails weren't digging into her cheeks anymore and Rachel wasn't afraid for her life any longer.

"Hey," a voice cut through the silence, and while Santana whipped her torso around to receive the intruder, Rachel's breath hitched and she turned her head away, not wanting the cheerleader to see her in such a state. "What's going on here?"

Her voice was harsh and questioning, and Rachel imagined her standing there with her hands on her hips, eyebrow arched and hazel eyes scanning the scene with her usual mixture of indifference and derision. She shuddered and she knew Santana felt it.

"Nothing, Tubbers," the Latina said lightly, and Rachel was awed at her ability to go from sounding like a homicidal maniac to a somewhat disobedient minion in a matter of seconds. "Just having a little chat with Berry here. Isn't that right?"

With that, she smacked her cheek. Gently, this time. Playfully. Rachel gasped and clenched her teeth to keep a whine from escaping. She didn't dare peek around the Latina or through her hair to see how the head cheerleader was reacting to this. She knew she would burst into tears at the sight of her.

There was a brief moment of silence, and then she spoke again.

"Berry?"

Rachel was surprised. She hadn't taken her 'best friend's' word on things. She was prodding _her_, expecting the truth from her. She was making sure everything really was okay. Like she car—_don't do that to yourself. Please don't._

She didn't have to look to know that Santana was glaring expectantly down at her, waiting for her to speak, and _daring_ her to say things weren't fine. Rachel took a deep, shuddering breath and forced herself to straighten her stance. It was slow going and so torturously painful on her back, but she managed to do it, bringing herself to her full five feet and two inches and half-facing the blonde cheerleader standing just on stage.

"Everything's fine, Qui—" she lost her breath and tried again. "As Santana said, we were simply having a discussion." She swallowed. "Regarding our chances at Regionals this year."

She caught the Latina nodded approvingly out of the corner of eye, but couldn't bring herself to care much. She was having a difficult time keeping her composure when all she wanted to do was burst into tears and tend to her aching back. And when she was in the room, examining her quizzically.

The two by the piano waited with bated breath while the head cheerleader made her decision on whether or not they were being truthful, and Rachel didn't know whether to be relieved or panicked when she caught her stepping closer out of the corner of her eye.

"I think you need to back off, Santana," she said cautiously, though her words were spoken firmly, as though to an untamed beast. The analogy wasn't far off, Rachel reflected. "Now."

The singer was surprised. Santana, on the other hand, seemed amused. She choked out a laugh while Rachel attempted to ignore the fluttering low in her abdomen at the blonde's defense of her. It was still fake. She could still say that.

"Well, that's a twist," the Latina commented icily, and Rachel shuddered for entirely different reasons at the reappearance of the maniac in her voice.

She was mildly surprised Santana had given in so easily. She'd basically admitted that something bad _was_ going on, but then…the head cheerleader tended to see right through people, and once she made a decision she stuck to it. Besides, the Latina had known her for a long time. She must've been able to see when she was fighting a losing battle.

"The town _harlot_—" Rachel stiffened "—playing the knight in shining armor? Isn't that just _precious_, Berry?" Santana mocked, and the singer found it within herself to glare boldly up into her black eyes. "Makes you feel warm and fuzzy all over, doesn't it?" She smirked.

"San, back off," her sharp voice interrupted. This time there was no trace of cautiousness in her voice. She was getting impatient.

The Latina wasn't concerned. "Or does it make you feel other things?" she purred, closer to Rachel's face. "Kind of makes me wonder if you're hopeless after all."

The singer almost whimpered. She wanted to beg and plead for Santana to just stop—she couldn't take it before, but if the head cheerleader found out about her unwanted longing, she would never survive it. She would have to leave McKinley. Possibly Ohio in general. Her cheek was still aching, however, and she didn't think she could quite manage words anymore without sobbing.

"Santana," she hissed. "I'm telling you to back off _now_. Get away from her."

"News flash, Q. I'm not your little bitch anymore," the Latina snapped ferociously, finally taking the heat off of Rachel. "You don't get to tell me what to do like some mutt at your heels. Last year changed things. Or have you forgotten about the spawn you popped?"

"_Don't_ talk about her like that!" she snarled back, and Rachel couldn't help but flinch at that. She felt like she was standing between two wildcats about to pounce. It was not a pleasant sensation. "And have _you_ forgotten your place again? I'm captain. That means I call the shots, and I am telling you to get away from Rachel."

Santana's laughter filled the entire auditorium and sent chills racing up and down Rachel's spine. Either that or the chills were from the head cheerleader saying her name. She couldn't tell, and she really didn't want to know, so she focused on her terror instead.

"Oh, so now it's Rachel, hm?" the Latina prompted, grinning insanely. "Wow, Q. You are just _begging_ me to try a little experiment."

The singer could hear the obvious confusion in the blonde's voice when she queried, "What?"

Rachel wasn't confused. She was apprehensive. She wanted to run like hell, but she had a feeling she wouldn't get far before one or both of them stopped her. Or before the pain overtook her and she couldn't exert herself anymore. She was just wondering if ducking beneath the piano would do her any good when the cold eyes were back on her.

"Let's see, shall we?" she purred, and Rachel started to shake her head, tears threatening to spill over her cheeks, but before she could so much as blink, Santana had her hand in a vice grip around her chin again and crashed their lips together.

It hurt. Not just her cheek, but it was so forceful it smashed her lips into her teeth. She was thankful she didn't taste any blood as Santana continued on, swiping her tongue across her lips. Rachel kept her mouth shut as tight as she could, refusing to reply to the kiss, even as she whimpered in pain at the way their lips ground together. Fortunately, the Latina just seemed to be doing the tongue thing for show, because she wasn't punished for it and moments later she was pulling away, licking her swollen lips while Rachel gasped for breath.

And just as Santana _knew_ she would, the singer glanced at the head cheerleader in some twisted kind of hope that she would react…badly. Her hazel eyes locked her in place, her mouth open like she wanted to say something, to protest—but she choked. She froze up. And all Rachel could read was confusion.

She deflated instantly, looking away from Quinn and biting her lip to keep from sobbing because Santana had done it. All in one go, she'd forced Rachel to acknowledge her feelings and proved to her that she had no chance with the object of her affections. Ever. Because she simply didn't care enough.

The air shifted around her, somehow becoming even tenser after the shock that followed the kiss, but Rachel dejectedly put it to her own senses reacquainting themselves with the tenseness. Rather than a change they all felt.

"Better luck next time," Santana purred, and Rachel shied away when she realized how close her voice was. She felt her breaths and cringed.

The Latina just chuckled, patting her stinging cheek again, and walked away. As though nothing happened at all. Like not a thing in her world had changed. And it probably hadn't, Rachel reflected. Santana was like a hurricane, in some ways. She raged through life, destroying everything that touched her, and then continued on her merry way, unaffected. Unchanged.

Rachel hated her.

Quinn drew in a deep breath, and it was only then that the brunette was able to tear her gaze away from the retreating form of the devil incarnate. Her gaze whipped to the blonde, who looked more uncertain than Rachel had ever seen her. It didn't make her feel better.

"Are you o—"

She stood up straight, pushing off from the piano, and ignored the whine of pain that wrenched from her throat as she attempted to follow the Latina's path. She couldn't take dealing with Quinn right now, especially not if she was going to be nice for once in their entire acquaintance. She'd just wanted a bath. That was all she'd wanted.

"Hey, wait!" the blonde called, sounding mildly offended.

It didn't take her long to catch up to her, and when she did, she caught her elbow in an oddly gentle grasp, turning her back to the cheerleader. Rachel didn't bother lying to herself this time. She enjoyed the touch both because it was so much gentler than Santana's, and because it was Quinn's soft hand on her skin. She ripped her arm out of her hand, refusing her touch despite herself.

"What?" she grumbled.

She was irritated by the swelling in her cheek. It was making words more difficult than strictly necessary.

Her eyes flickered to meet wide hazel when she heard the taller girl gasp. She was shocked by something or other, and Rachel was surprised she was putting her emotions out there so easily. She could read her like a book right now. It wasn't hard at all. She was shocked and angry and concerned all at once.

"Are you okay?" she repeated, so softly the brunette's eyes were tempted to flutter, but they snapped wide open when she felt the blonde's fingers touch tentatively to her cheek.

She hissed in pain and surprise, shoving the hand away and backing up simultaneously, refusing to recognize the emotion suddenly prevalent in hazel eyes as hurt.

"It's nothing; I'm fine," Rachel growled, and Quinn now looked incredulous.

"What? No, she hit you! You're not fine," she insisted, and stepped into the brunette's space again.

"I am," she retorted.

Quinn ignored her this time, reaching more slowly to touch her cheek. Rachel eyed her warily. Did she not know what she was doing to her right now? Did she not see her disappointment when she realized what she already knew? That the blonde didn't care for her, particularly not in that way, and never would. This was like sweet torment, getting a taste of what she'd always known was buried beneath that cold façade and knowing she would never have it again.

She would rather Quinn treated her like dirt.

"Let me help you," she murmured, cutting into Rachel's thoughts just as she was about to make contact with her cheek again.

She shied her head away. "I don't need your help, Quinn. I'm fine."

"Yeah, you look it," she said dryly, and the brunette folded her arms defiantly.

"I've taken care of a thousand slushies without you. I can certainly handle an ice pack."

She'd meant what she said to come out biting and perhaps sting the head cheerleader, even if it was just the tiniest bit. But the way her voice was cracking with tears and coming out oddly because of her swollen cheek took the snap right out of it, and Quinn stood unimpressed.

"This is different and you know it, Rachel," she said, and her tone was back to gentle, coaxing. "You should report her to Figgins and—"

"Why do you keep calling me that?" the brunette groaned, exasperated.

She was truly curious, but her main reason for asking was that she didn't want to address the matter of Figgins. For one thing, Figgins's title may have read 'principal,' but everyone knew that the _real_ master of the school was one Sue Sylvester. And even if she'd lost respect for Santana after that summer surgery of hers, she obviously still recognized her talent, or else she wouldn't still be on the squad. And she couldn't have one of her star Cheerios getting suspended.

For another, trying to report Santana would only result in the _last_ thing Rachel wanted to come out. The reason for it all.

"It's your name," Quinn replied at length, uncertainty winding through her voice and coming out in her shrugging shoulders.

Good. She had her off-track. Now to keep her there.

"I know that," she replied shortly. "You're the one who usually seems to have difficulty grasping the concept." She winced.

She hesitated; she was thrown. "I…today is different."

The brunette scoffed. "No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is, and you know it," the blonde snapped back, a little fire in her voice now.

"Why?" She shook her head, snorting derisively. "Because you suddenly have reason to pity Man Hands? I don't want your pity."

Quinn looked like she was struggling with this. Like she wanted to explode, but wouldn't let herself. It was entertaining to watch, at least, though Rachel wished she would just let her go. She was tired of standing and she couldn't stand being around her right now. Particularly not alone.

A mischievous glint entered the blonde's eyes. Rachel's stomach clenched in apprehension.

"Fine. I'll call you by a nickname," she said agreeably. Far too agreeably. "You need to report this to Figgins, Bright Eyes."

The blood drained from her face so rapidly she might've had a foot rush, if such a thing had existed. Quinn didn't mean anything by it, she reminded herself. She was just trying to get around her stubbornness, but it was killing her. The way she said it so sweetly, familiarly. Rachel fought the tears suddenly burning at the back of her eyelids yet again, begging for escape.

She shook her head at the oblivious blonde. "Don't do that."

Quinn cocked her head endearingly. "Do what, Bright Eyes?"

"Don't call me that," she said, a little stronger this time. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Please."

"Why not? Do you have another preference, Bright Eyes?" She was smirking.

"Please," Rachel whimpered one last time, and then the tears started flowing.

She distantly heard Quinn start to reply again, continuing what she seemed to think was a playful game that was tormenting the brunette. She was too busy trying to wipe her cheeks dry without agitating her injury to pay much attention, and she soon had to give up on the endeavor, as it was only making her cry harder. She felt her knees wobbling and found her way back to the piano bench, where she slumped and sobbed without restraint, letting all the terror and exhaustion and pain and torture from the last hour or so flood right out of her body with tears that seemed to sting the very floor beneath her.

"A-are you okay? I didn't mean to make you cry," Quinn said, much closer than she was before, and she sounded panicked.

Rachel tried to hide her face and yelped when she cupped her cheek too abruptly, and then she felt a solid, gentle hand creep onto her shoulder and she just couldn't take it anymore. She lowered her hands, hiccupping and then flinching in more pain from her back.

"Please go," she whispered around her tears. "Please."

The blonde sounded bewildered. "But, Rach—"

"Just leave. Get out."

There was no malice in her voice, and she kind of hated that. She gestured weakly toward an exit and turned to slump against the closed piano, which sometimes felt like her only friend. The hand didn't go away.

"Rachel, I—"

Her anger spiked. "Get _out_ of here!"

She whipped to face the cheerleader again, ignoring the twinge of pain in her back yet again in favor of shooting a falsely fierce glare up at her. Her hazel eyes were filled with shock, as though she just couldn't believe Rachel would speak to her like that. The brunette again refused to acknowledge the hurt in those eyes, and she felt a bitter sort of victory when emotion was erased from the blonde's expression.

Quinn steeled her jaw, her eyes going frighteningly empty, and she nodded curtly before exiting the way she came in. Rachel watched her disappear from view, waiting until she was certain the auditorium was empty of her presence.

And then she rested her arms on the piano and leaned her forehead into them and cried for all she was worth.


	2. All is Crumbling

**A/N:** This is only because I love you guys. And because I can't not redeem Santana—tried, can't. Chapter title from The Fray's 'Never Say Never.'

**All is Crumbling**

Santana made it to her car before she felt it.

As she strutted out of the auditorium, sashaying her hips and tossing a smirk over her shoulder at the mess she'd left behind, she was running on that feeling of pure power that had been swirling around her like a windstorm since that night she and Berry kissed. It was addictive. It gave her a rush, a thrill she'd only felt in small measures when she slushied or tormented one of the many losers of McKinley High. This was something different. It was heady.

Down the hallways, the Latina was fueled by lingering rage at Berry. Taunting her, making her feel helpless because she couldn't have something—not necessarily because she wanted it, but simply because she couldn't have it and that made it desirable—that was one thing. Talking about Brittany like she was some two-bit whore…that was something else entirely. The combination of fury and power hadn't been a good one, no matter how superior she felt in those moments.

In the parking lot, she pinpointed her car and kept her focus on it, determined to make it to the red vehicle before any other emotion could enter the array she was already feeling. She made it there and unlocked the door, taking her seat as she tossed the backpack she'd retrieved on her way out to the passenger seat. She dug out her phone and turned it on before sliding her key in the ignition and flipping the engine once.

And then her hand fell from the keys as her chest was pressed down by the weight of the realization of what she'd just done, and she felt it. She felt like a _monster_.

Remembering those wide brown eyes staring up at her, shining with tears and silently begging her—for what, Santana didn't know—and filled with the most blood-chilling _terror_…. Those whimpers of pain. Small, unintelligible pleads for mercy. And maybe worst of all, the shake of her head. Miniscule in its briefness, but there. And she'd just ignored it and pressed on, _forced_ herself on the other girl.

No, she didn't just feel like a monster. She was one.

Santana choked on the suddenly ragged breaths she drew in, already scrabbling for her phone to call the one person she could when she felt like this. When emotion was choking the life out of her bitchy façade and she couldn't handle it. She let out a muffled curse when her shaking hands knocked the device to the floorboard and she carefully leaned around the steering wheel to snatch it up, scrolling through her list of contacts rapidly.

She blinked, trying to clear her suddenly blurred vision as she stared at the entry. Brittany.

The center of Santana's universe, her place of calm, the one person she could go to. The other person her addiction to power had shoved aside with a casual knife in the back. Her fist clenched around the phone in revenge for the jealousy now crashing over her, wishing she held Abrams's little goose neck instead, strangling the life out of—

The Latina flinched and the phone fell to her lap, fist unwrapping itself from a phantom Berry's chin. She flexed the hand several times, refusing to close her eyes even though she felt tears threatening, because she knew if she did, all she would see were haunted brown eyes. She leaned her elbow against the window and passed a hand over her forehead and hair, unsuccessfully attempting to compose herself with the motion.

She slushied people, laughed when they were thrown in dumpsters, came up with vicious nicknames to spit at them when they were at their worst, even trolled the internet just to make sure they knew they weren't safe there, either. But she never really got it. Never really understood what it felt like to be a bully, a monster, until Berry looked at her like she was afraid for her very life. Like she was certain _Santana_ would kill her.

She plucked up the phone again, scrolling farther down.

Quinn, right above RP Berry. Aka, RuPaul Berry. She'd been too lazy to type it all out, she remembered. The two names screamed at her in white against the black background, branding themselves on her mind without pity.

She'd fucked up. Bad.

It was an understatement, but Santana didn't know how else to phrase it. Nothing could capture how deep a hole she'd dug herself, in her mind. She set her phone on the dashboard and leaned her forehead into her hand again. How had she gotten here? Hurting Brittany had been the start. She lost her. To _Abrams_, of all people, and with Brittany went everything else. Because, whether the Latina had wanted to admit it to herself or not, she was her world. Everything good inside her came from Brittany.

When she pushed her aside, goodness left the building and now she was this. This monster, that took out all its rage and pent-up aggression and jealousy of Abrams out on Berry, after a simple moment of weakness in which she'd made herself the ideal victim. And then that monster ruthlessly persecuted the diva, hunting her down, isolating her, and then it drove in the knife. And it twisted it, reminding Berry that the woman she wanted would never look at her that way.

Berry may have been a selfish, obnoxious, bossy little freak, who half the time Santana wanted to ship off to Israel, but…. She didn't deserve that. Not at all.

Not after being the first person to believe the Latina when she said she wouldn't mess up glee's chances. Not after giving Brittany a gold star sticker on the bus ride back from Regionals to make her feel better about missing a step. Brittany had thought she was the reason New Directions lost, Santana remembered. And she hadn't known how to make her realize it couldn't possibly have been, and then Berry had leaned over the back of her seat and given Brittany one of her gold stars and said, "_You earned it after that performance._" And then she sat back down, and Brittany didn't stop grinning the whole way home.

Santana's breath hitched and she rubbed her eye angrily, until the skin around it was so irritated it was red. She had an itch, of course. She yanked down the mirror to check her makeup and dug through her backpack hastily, hurrying to reapply before anyone noticed that her mask had slid out of place, if only for the briefest while. That type of weakness wouldn't get her back on top of the Cheerios, after all.

She unconsciously flexed her hand a few more times as she padded her cheeks with the foundation. She paused when her phone vibrated on the dashboard. She knew it was from Brittany, because she always texted her at this time to ask where Waldo, her stuffed duck with the little red and white striped shirt, was. Under the bed was the answer.

Brittany would accidentally toss him off the bed during the night and kick him beneath it when she was crawling out of her cocoon in the morning. A slight, genuine smile quirked the Latina's lips and she hurried to fire the text right back with her answer. Her thumb paused over the 'c' when she finished her answer. The answer would be no, she couldn't come over, because there was one thing standing in her way: Artie Abrams.

With a scowl, Santana hit send and met her own eyes in the mirror again. That wasn't true.

The only thing standing in her way was her. This monster that had just irrevocably fucked over Rachel Berry after it stabbed her best friend and the love of her life in the back. And she didn't know how to fix it.

The visor bounced three times when she smacked it back up.

XXXXXX

Quinn was on a mission. She had one target in mind at the moment and that person was one Principal Figgins. Rachel was (clearly) not in the right frame of mind to report Santana's insanity, so Quinn was going to take care of it for her. If she happened to make it look as though she was actually _obeying_ the diva (yeah, right), well, she obviously misunderstood and it was no fault of Quinn's if she was surprised later on when she showed back up in the auditorium. Or at her house, or wherever Rachel happened to sneak off to.

Maybe the midget didn't want her help. Well, not maybe. She _didn't_ want her help—that much was obvious—but Quinn wasn't going to stand idly by when someone she cared about was hurt. Because, yes, she did care about Rachel's welfare. Maybe she was annoying as hell and maybe her narcissism knew no end (again, not really maybe, on either count), but she was Quinn's teammate all the same. And in this case, did she really even need that excuse?

_No_, she decided, _not really_. No one deserved to be hit. _No one_.

And as much as Quinn had tried to make Rachel believe otherwise in the past, she was not, in fact, no one. She was human, she had feelings, and she didn't deserve abuse. Just seeing the red swell of her cheek, the slowly forming bruise around her beauty mark, the drying stains of tear tracks—it made Quinn's blood boil, and some unknown beast felt like it was raging in the middle of her chest, trying to burst out and wreak vengeance on whoever had marred that perfectly honeyed skin.

She knew who, but she couldn't think about that right now. It was too much all at once. Maybe she had hit her before, too, but that was different somehow. It just wasn't the same as thinking someone she grew up with, shared her darkest secrets with, trusted as her second for so long…had abused someone. Rachel Berry, to be specific. Someone who had suffered enough at their hands, Quinn thought.

She shook her golden head forcefully of the memory running mercilessly on replay and placed a hand on each hip, her power stance. Her head automatically rose at the motion and she felt all emotion slide from her expression, leaving an empty shell behind. It scared many an upperclassman into submission back when she was just a sophomore and head cheerleader, impressed many a businessman coming for dinner at the Fabray's, and sent Jacob Ben Israel into hysterics once. Though that wasn't a particularly difficult task….

Another shake of the head and she burst through the glass door of Figgins's secretary's office. Her mouth twisted into a smirk of satisfaction when she saw the man still seated behind his desk, glancing rapidly between who she was sure had quickly become his three least favorite coaches. Sylvester, Beiste, and Schuester. Good. They needed to hear this, too.

The football coach was seated on one of the couches along the wall, hands folded in her lap as she watched the other two bicker (as usual), and the cheerleading coach was right in the glee club coach's face, spewing insults at an unnaturally fast pace.

Quinn rolled her eyes, steeled her resolve, and shoved open the glass door with a commanding, "Principal Figgins."

Four pairs of eyes shot to her immediately, but she ignored the varying looks of curiosity and disapproval to either side of her and kept her focus on her target. She may have been interrupting an important meeting, but from the looks of it, they weren't getting very far with it anyway. She was doing Figgins a favor and saving him a headache.

He looked surprised, and for good reason. Quinn was pretty sure she'd never been in his office before…. She shoved that thought aside as Figgins leaned forward, placing his forearms on his desk as he peered at her with interest.

"Yes, Miss Fabray?"

Mr. Schuester stepped closer in her peripheral vision. "Quinn, what's going on? Is ev—"

She spoke over top of him when she announced, "I'm here to report Santana Lopez for assaulting Rachel Berry."

Coach Beiste was off the couch in an instant and Quinn ignored the heavy gasps of all three coaches now surrounding her. Mr. Schuester took another step closer and she felt Coach Sylvester do the same. However, her attention remained on the principal, whose mouth opened wordlessly.

"What?" Mr. Schue gasped, sounding stricken and…shocked. Disbelieving.

She ignored him.

"Q, you mean to tell me Melons snapped on Barbra, jeopardizing her spot on the squad and our chance for a win at Nationals?" Sylvester demanded, displeased to say the least.

Quinn rolled her eyes. Why did she once idolize that woman? She was telling them Rachel was _abused_ by one of her Cheerios and all she could do was worry about her ridiculous cheerleading competition?

"Is she all right?" Beiste asked quietly, and the blonde unclenched enough to offer the woman an uncertain look. Her face fell like her heart had just been broken, and Quinn had to steel her jaw in order to keep from expressing similar sentiments.

Figgins, in the meantime, finally composed himself. "Miss Fabray, that is a very serious acc—"

"Since this incident occurred on school grounds," she said sharply, again speaking over him, "in accordance with the zero tolerance for bullying policy at McKinley since Kurt Hummel's transfer, I expect the proper punishment will be handed out posthaste."

She finished it with a raise of her chin, as though that was the end of the discussion and her word would be followed, no questions asked. She hoped it would be, but Figgins hesitated and she knew it wasn't the end of things. Mr. Schuester had sunk back into the couch along the wall, hand over his mouth, like he just couldn't believe this could have happened. She fought the urge to scoff at him.

As though the glee club members hadn't been tearing Rachel down and making threats toward her for months under his watch. He really did turn a blind eye when it came to her. Quinn's anger deflated at the recollection of her own cruel words toward the diva, though she didn't let it affect the steeliness of her façade.

"Did you see this happen, Miss Fabray?" Figgins asked at last, and she was pleased to see that she had his full, undivided attention for once. He was actually taking this seriously. Good.

She gave a slight shake of the head. "No, I found them in the auditorium. Santana had Rachel backed up against the piano and she was clearly uncomfortable with the situation. I told Santana to back off and eventually she left—" no need to tell them about that simply awkward kiss that she was still completely confused about (what on earth had Santana been trying to accomplish?) "—and I saw a bruise on Rachel's cheek, like someone hit her."

The principal frowned, looking disappointed, and there were similar sounds of exasperation echoing through the room. Quinn scowled at him.

"But you did not see Miss Lopez physically assault Miss Berry?" he confirmed.

She huffed. "No, but it's not that hard to put together."

"But Quinn, you can't be sure—" Mr. Schuester interjected, smiling condescendingly.

"_You_ weren't there, okay?" she snarled, and he leaned back against the couch again, looking almost chagrined. She softened her voice a little when she added, "Rachel was terrified of her."

He swallowed visibly, and she turned her attention back to Figgins.

"What are you going to do about all this?" she demanded, and he sighed.

"I can do nothing with the evidence you have given me," he said, lifting his hands as though to throw the burden off of himself. "My hands are tied."

Quinn glared at him. She could feel her eyes burning with anger and that beast was suddenly roaring for release again, scrambling to get out and destroy this aggravating obstacle to achieving justice. Figgins leaned back in his chair, as though he could see the creature writhing within her, raring to be let loose on his sorry self.

Her voice was low when she spat, "What do you mean you can't do anything?"

"He means that you didn't see anything worthwhile, Q," Sylvester interjected, and she snapped her nasty sneer over her shoulder to face the impassive woman. "All you've got is circumstantial and that isn't enough to do anything to Ms. Montag, no matter how much she may deserve it."

Quinn fumed, nostrils flaring with the fury coursing through her veins, and she reminded herself repeatedly that blowing up at her elders would only backfire in the end. She needed to keep her respectful good girl image intact so she could get them to do what she wanted, whenever she wanted.

"Listen, Miss Fabray," Figgins said cautiously, and she whirled to face him again. He swallowed. "If you can get Miss Berry to come forward with her own accusation, as well as evidence of this abuse, as long as your stories match, you may have a case. Until then, I'm sorry, but there is nothing I can do for you."

_Stay calm_, she coached herself. It was frustrating that her word wasn't enough, but they'd given her another route. All she had to do was get Rachel to come forward as well and things would be settled. Beiste was frowning sympathetically at her and she ground her teeth together once more before turning on her heel and marching out as ceremoniously as she had entered, entirely ignoring the other two coaches.

She stopped at her locker on her way out, thinking to drop by the auditorium to see if Rachel was still there before she went home. If she intended on checking up on the diva at her house, there were a few things she would need to grab first, just in case. The brunette probably _wouldn't_ ask her to stay over, but on the off chance that her dads weren't home and she didn't want to be alone, Quinn didn't fancy wearing too-small argyle pajamas to bed. Particularly if Berry had a camera in her phone.

The auditorium was dark and emptied out, as she'd half-expected, so she made the trek out to her car and drove home, immediately dreading going inside when she saw that only the light from the TV was on through the window. This automatically meant one thing: scotch.

Her mother's favorite drink, as far as Quinn knew, was actually champagne. Like some cliché housewife from the 50s. Russell's favorite drink was scotch, and Judy had taken to drinking it on those occasions when she most regretted her decision to kick him out. This typically meant a fresh set of bills had come that Judy had to figure out how to pay. Despite the hefty sum she'd won in the divorce, things were tighter than the Fabray women were used to, and Judy reacted to the dreaded envelopes with panic and scotch.

Quinn was sure it didn't help that Russell used to be in charge of the finances, but she found herself feeling rather unsympathetic when her mother's answer to all this was to turn to alcohol. It was a built-in reaction to all the bad things that happened in the Fabray family, but she'd naively hoped her mother had started to move on from that.

What made it worse was the way Judy reacted to the scotch. Champagne ridded her of lucidity, so she could take Russell's chauvinistic attitude and condescending demands without complaint. Scotch turned her into another person entirely. All she seemed to do was stare at the TV and drink, and if Quinn was too loud for her tastes, she yelled.

It wouldn't have been bad if it were her father yelling at her. She could take that. She was used to it when he was still around. But her mother yelling at her was something else entirely. She hardly ever scolded Quinn when she was young, and even during sober arguments, she barely raised her voice. So to hear such snappish, harsh words coming from the usually calm, collected woman was frightening to Quinn.

However, her overnight bag was inside and if she intended on staying with Rachel, going into the lion's den was a necessary evil. Besides, she really should take a shower before she visited someone at their home. Cheerios practice did not leave the most pleasant of scents behind.

So she steeled herself and crept inside, kicking off her shoes at the door and hanging up her Cheerios jacket as mutely as possible while the sounds of ABC News blared in the background. She slipped toward the living room and peered in, only to find her mother half-asleep with a glass of scotch still dangling from her fingers, her eyes glazed as the screen flashed across her face. Quinn released a breath of relief and hurried the rest of the way down the hall before bounding up the stairs.

After slinging her backpack to her bed and tossing her always-ready overnight bag next to it, she stripped down, placing her uniform neatly on its hanger and her hair tie in the jar with the rest of them. Forty-five minutes later, her bathroom mirror was fogged, her hair was combed, and she stood naked with a towel on at the entryway to her closet, trying to decide what would be appropriate for a visit to the Berry's.

The blonde ended up with a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved lavender top, figuring casual but conservative would be best for the occasion. She slung her backpack and overnight bag over her shoulders and headed for the front door, crossing her fingers and praying that her good luck wouldn't run out. She had just made it past the living room when her stomach leapt into her throat.

"Quinn!"

She swallowed down her nerves, creeping back to the doorframe to peek in at her scowling mother. She knew the woman was drunk when she called her 'Quinn.' It was the only time her affectionate nickname wasn't used, and though she pretended it annoyed her, she sincerely missed the little 'y' on the end of her name when her mom cut it short that way.

"Yes, Mom?" she asked meekly, fiddling with her sleeves anxiously.

Her eyes narrowed. "Where do you think you're sneaking off to? Off to see that Sam boy, are you?" She sneered around the name. "Don't think I don't know what's going on with you two."

Quinn faltered, confused. "Mom, we're dating. I told you. H-he came for dinner and—"

"He's going to get you pregnant all over again! You'll see," she roared, and then coughed heartily.

The younger blonde was physically moved backward by that blow, and tears were already stinging at her eyes. She couldn't deal with this now. She had things to do. She couldn't handle her drunk mother accusing her of whoring around when she was worrying about this whole Rachel situation.

So she did what Fabrays did when they couldn't strike back: she ran. She slid on her shoes and grabbed her Cheerios jacket as an afterthought and rushed to the door, trying not to let the tears fall as she heard her mother call after her, "I see the way you throw yourself at that boy!"

XXXXXX

The drive home was awkward, to say the least. Rachel couldn't lean back in her seat because it hurt to put that much pressure on her back. But she also couldn't maintain her posture, because—surprise—it hurt. She was stunned and annoyed at just how many movements utilized one's back muscles, but regardless, vowed never to take her back for granted again.

She also couldn't put her backpack on her shoulder and had to resort to practically dragging it along the ground. Though that hurt, as well, it wasn't as bad as if she'd had her Biology textbook repeatedly digging into the bruise she was sure was already forming.

Once she was finally within the safety of her home, she decided to forgo carrying the bag upstairs and instead set up camp on the couch, shrugging her coat onto the armchair sitting adjacent to it. Her keys went into the mail bowl in the center of the coffee table, and she flipped through the envelopes they'd received today as she headed to the kitchen for an ice pack and a bottle of water. Mostly bills, she noted, as usual.

Though apparently her papa, James, was invited to join the Lima Association for Medical Enhancement. Interesting acronym, Rachel noted, before tossing it into the trash.

The answering machine was blinking with three messages, so she clicked 'play' as she pressed the ice pack to her back and chugged down some refreshing water. This sense of normalcy and routine (minus the ice pack) was refreshing in itself, and she felt calmed by the whole thing. Her world hadn't been entirely destroyed. She could still do some things.

She deleted the wrong number and the one that didn't leave a message, and then a grin slowly spread across her face as the third one started playing, that deep, calming voice filling the kitchen and leaving her with such a feeling of peace, of home. If not for the sting in her cheek when she smiled, the moment would've been the best part of her day.

"_Hey, sweetie, it's Papa. Your dad told me what happened at Sectionals and I am so proud of you, honey. A tie is great news, and I'm glad to hear that your friend Kurt gets to continue to the next level with you. I want to talk to you more about this business with Finn, but I just needed to call to tell you how proud I am and how much I miss you. I love you, babygirl. I'll talk to you soon._"

The dial tone sounded and Rachel sighed, leaning her hip into the counter next to the machine and simply letting those warm, loving words wash over her for a moment longer. This was what kept her going, honestly. On her worst days, even if her fathers weren't there, they showed how much they cared just by calling and talking every day. It made all the pain and heartache from her horrible days at school wash away, if just for that evening, because somebody cared. Somebody loved her.

It was only when she recalled his mention of Finn that her peaceful moment was destroyed, the reminder of everything that happened over the past month or so and especially the last week, and then _today_, was too powerful to allow her the calm she needed. A chill ran up her spine, a token of her previous terror, and she forced herself into action, not allowing herself to stand there and be taunted by memories.

The ice pack was tossed back into the freezer, though she kept her water bottle with her as she trudged up the stairs to retrieve her bath supplies from her bedroom. The master bathroom in her fathers's room was the biggest she'd ever seen, which meant the tub was pretty sizeable as well, and the water ran hot almost immediately. It was perfect, in her view, and always had been. When she was little, she would put on her scuba gear and pretend to dive for seashells. She was always disappointed when she didn't find any.

Rachel shook her head of her reminiscences, instead focusing on the busy work she'd set herself to. She poured in bath salts in moderation as the tub gradually filled with steaming water before she went about the business of setting candles and her personal brands of shampoo, conditioner, and soap along the edge of the tub. She carefully lit the candles before stripping down, avoiding the sight of herself in the mirror—she wasn't quite ready to face the damage Santana had done yet.

When she finally sank into the warm, waiting water, it was with a moan of pleasure that echoed off the walls and made her blush. Her sore muscles were soothed and coaxed into relaxing, joints finally stretching with ease as she was, quite literally, washed in the safety of her own home. Away from school, and Finn, and Santana. And Quinn.

Her eyes slid closed and she leaned back against the rim of the tub, willing her mind away from thoughts of the mess awaiting her at school the next day. As usual, it didn't do much good.

As if things weren't already complicated enough between herself, Finn, Santana, and Noah, now Quinn had to be brought back into the mix, and not even by the most expected member of that little quadrangle. As long as Rachel was left to ignore her feelings for the tempestuous blonde, she was safe and mostly out of the loop, but Santana couldn't possibly leave things be. As if things weren't bad enough. Why was everything so…_fucked_?

Santana had taken Finn's virginity and kissed Rachel while sleeping around with Noah, who impregnated Quinn behind Finn's back and helped bring an end to Rachel's relationship with Finn by making out with her, and Finn was mostly just heartbroken about being cheated on so much, though he seemed to have some feelings for Quinn and for both Santana and Rachel, both of whom were secretly pining after blonde cheerleaders, whether they wanted to admit it or not, who were involved in their own relationships and weren't interested in a change of genders in their partners, or new partners at all, though Noah certainly seemed to hope Quinn would change her mind about that.

Was that the definition of fucked? Rachel thought it might be. She would have to look it up later. Perhaps on UrbanDictionary.

She cleared her head of those extraneous thoughts, instead focusing on the facts. What she was certain of.

One, she was terrified of Santana. Two, she had no chance at a romantic relationship with Quinn, and she'd likely ruined any shot she had at a friendship with her when she so forcefully pushed her away that very afternoon. Three, she could not, and would not, involve herself with anyone for whom she had no feelings (in other words, anyone but Quinn). Four, she could not let Quinn know about her feelings, which led her to five. She couldn't report Santana to Figgins like Quinn had told her to.

It would lead to too many questions that would ultimately end in the truth of it all coming out, which wouldn't be good for anyone, least of all Rachel. The truth would completely alienate everyone in her life she had come to hold dear, leaving her with no one but her absentee fathers and possibly Kurt, who was absentee in his own way.

Finn's heart would be crushed further, Santana's reputation ruined (not that Rachel cared, but there was a serious possibly the Latina would end up taking it out on her, and she did _not_ want that to happen), Brittany's remaining trust in Santana shattered, the glee club would hate her for wrecking the uneasy balance they'd struck after Sectionals, and, worst of all, Quinn would hate her more than ever. She'd never look at her again. And as much as she hated to admit it, Rachel would not be able to take that.

She could live with this, as long as Quinn didn't hate her.

With that conclusion reached, Rachel was decided on her course of action for the next day at school: lay low and avoid Santana at all costs.

She stretched her legs one last time before reaching to go about the business of actually bathing herself. Once she was completely cleansed and rinsed, she pulled the plug at the bottom of the tub and stepped out, pulling her pink bathrobe around her shoulders before she blew out the candles and set about clean-up, saving combing her hair for last.

The soak had done her back good, to her relief, though she still felt fairly stiff in her movements. She threw back a couple of painkillers with the rest of her water before she combed out her hair, trying not to wince at the image of her puffy, yellowed cheek mirrored back at her. She had just gotten to combing out her bangs when she heard the doorbell ring.

Rachel frowned. Her fathers hadn't said anything about a package being delivered in their messages recently, and that was usually the only reason she received visitors. It rang again, and she blew out a quiet huff and set the comb on the counter, tying her robe tight around her body and padding lightly down the stairs. She called out to reassure whoever it was she was coming, and peered through the peephole once she arrived.

Who she saw there made her stomach leap to her throat and she stared at the golden doorknob for several breathless moments before she cracked it open and peered through at her visitor, eyes wide and inquiring.

"What do you want?" she whispered.

Quinn ran a restless hand through her long blonde locks. "Can I come in?"


End file.
